


The Gamble

by WatsonsStressBall



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Johnlock Roulette, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:52:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2222964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatsonsStressBall/pseuds/WatsonsStressBall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been kidnapped by his and Sherlock's worst enemies, and they all want a piece of John. His only hope is that Sherlock will find him before it is too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gamble

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually from a prompt I submitted to johnwantsit.tumblr.com. It plagued me until I just had to fic it, but it kind of evolved along the way.

Some days, when John Watson came back to 221B Baker Street after a tiring day at the surgery, he would come in, shuck his jacket, make a cup of tea, and relax in front of the telly, or settle down in his armchair with a nice paperback.

This was not one of those days.

Other days, he’d end up with Sherlock Holmes, up to his elbows in documents, trying to find the one piece that would make whole puzzle come together. Or they’d be off on a thrilling chase through the streets and rooftops of London, after a dangerous felon.

This was not one of those days, either.

No, this was one of the days when John Watson did not make it back to 221B at all.

*****

He woke, disoriented, to find himself on a cold, hard floor, in total darkness. As his brain slowly sputtered back to reality, he realized that he was blindfolded, gagged, and bound hand and foot. Further consideration yielded the discovery that he was naked, and the resulting adrenaline spike forced him into something resembling clarity. He tried not to move, giving himself time to process his situation, hoping he hadn’t inadvertently tipped off his captors to his current state.

Breathe, he coached himself, and think. Inventory. OK, he was naked, he’d established that. At least it was July, so even though the building seemed to lack climate control, he wasn’t likely to succumb to hypothermia. Why he was naked...push that away, deal with it later. No serious pain, so not hit over the head. Drugged, probably. Stiff, mentally foggy, but otherwise ok so far.

What happened? He had just exited the Tube at Baker Street Station...and then…

He drew a blank. 

OK. Abducted somehow, of course. And taken...where? By whom? For what purpose?

Something scraped across the floor, and a man’s voice echoed off the walls.

“Welcome, Dr. Watson.” Footsteps, and a rustling of fabric. “Yes, I know you are awake. I am sure you are wondering why I have brought you here.”

Reflexively, John tried to speak, but the gag stuffed in his mouth reduced his vocalizations to a muffled, indistinct noise. He flexed his hands and feet, testing out the range of motion. There wasn’t much. Whoever had tied him had done a thorough job. He felt horribly exposed and helpless.

Footsteps again, approaching. “Let me tell you something,” said his captor. “You are Sherlock Holmes’ friend, aren’t you? You must have been so glad to find out that he had survived his encounter with my boss, after all.”

His boss… John had a feeling he knew where this was going.

“Yes, my boss. James Moriarty? You might have heard of him.”

Yes, John Watson was all too familiar with James Moriarty.

“Well. Perhaps you know that he is dead,” the man ground out. “He is dead, and your precious detective friend turned out to be alive after all.

“No one ever said life was fair, I guess,” John’s captor continued. “But James was more than just a brilliant mind. No, Jim was my friend too, and now he is gone.

“I wish to honor his memory, of course. I happen to know he had something special in mind for you. What better way, then, to remember him than by carrying out his wishes for his favorite adversary and his partner?”

I’ll burn you, hissed a voice from John’s memory. I’ll burn the heart out of you.

“I’ve been in touch with a few of Sherlock’s other...friends. Told them I had a plan, for you in particular. There was quite a bit of interest, actually. Big fans of your blog, you know. And everyone knows how much you mean to dear Sherlock. It’s touching, really. So I think they would like to meet you in person. Well, some of them, I believe you may have already met. At any rate, I’m planning a little get-together. Won’t that be cozy?

“So just sit tight, Dr. Watson. Not that you’ll be doing much else, anyway. And don’t worry, I’ll let your friend know you’re with me. Might invite him to join us, even. I think that would make for a truly lively evening.”

The footsteps receded, and he heard a door close, leaving him alone.

John tried to stamp down on the fear that was spiraling up his chest, but as he twisted grimly in his bonds, he wondered whether to hope that Sherlock found him or that Sherlock stayed far, far away.

*****

In the kitchen of 221B, Sherlock Holmes was in the middle of a delicate titration when his phone rang in the pocket of his dressing gown.

“John, phone,” he intoned, fiddling with the tap on the buret. A bit...bit more…

“Phone, John, answer the phone,” said Sherlock, raising his voice. One more drop would probably do it.

The phone continued to ring in his pocket.

“JOHN, PHONE!” yelled Sherlock. He turned his head to glance into the living room.

One drop, then a second, landed in the flask, and the solution immediately turned a dark violet, just as Sherlock turned back to look. Exasperated, he swept up the flask and flung it into the sink, where it shattered. He reached into his pocket for the phone just as the missed call alert sounded; he pulled out the phone and unlocked it. There was a voicemail from “Unknown”, and he played it back.

“Too busy to answer the phone, Sherlock?” came a sneering voice on the recording. “Ah well. I’m a friend of Jim Moriarty’s, you remember dear Jim, don’t you? I just wanted to let you know I have that little blogger of yours. I take it you haven’t missed him. Anyway, I thought I’d give you fair warning that I’ve been in contact with a few of your friends, and there’s some interest in the chap. Surprising, he doesn’t look like much, but I guess there’s no accounting for taste.”

Sherlock felt rooted to the ground with shock as the recording continued. “I’m just reaching out to see whether you’d be interested in a deal. It’s only fair, right? But maybe you don’t care for him after all. Two years you were gone, well, maybe you’ve moved on. Good for you. But some of us have a longer memory, I guess. At any rate, in case you’re interested...someone will be in touch. We can make arrangements. Otherwise, well, like I said, there are others who’d like to try for the good doctor. Maybe one of them will be the lucky winner, eh? Can’t wait to see what they come up with, some of them are quite creative, after all. Well, always fun talking at you, Sherlock. Bye now.”

The recording ended, and his phone alerted him to a new text message. Opening it, Sherlock saw that it was a photo...of John Watson, naked and trussed up on a concrete floor.

Blind panic fogged his brain. They had John. Some unknown someone had him and was...offering him? To his enemies -- Sherlock knew better than to suppose John’s captors were offering a deal to the likes of Greg Lestrade, or better yet, Mycroft.

Mycroft.

He was dialing before he could think twice, and talking even before his brother picked up. “Mycroft, I need your help. Someone has taken John, have you seen anything? You still have this flat under surveillance, I know you do. I will need CCTV footage, records of his Oyster card usage, activity on his bank account, anything you might have--”

“Sherlock,” cut in Mycroft. “Sherlock, stop babbling, you know I cannot understand you when you babble.”

“I don’t babble, Mycroft, and you are not usually this slow,” replied Sherlock. “For God’s sake, listen to me, they have John. Someone affiliated with Moriarty’s organization somehow, I don’t know who…”

“Moriarty? I thought you had eradicated his network.”

“Believe me, so did I. Have you seen anything, surveillance footage, phone records, anything whatsoever?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, then Mycroft said, “This is the first I am hearing of this. I will be back to you shortly. Be assured that I will be giving this matter the highest priority of which I am capable, but it may be that I will be at as much of a loss as you are. Stay by the phone, brother dear, and do not do anything rash.”

“I do not act rashly,” Sherlock returned, “but know that I will stop at nothing to ensure John’s safe return. Do you understand? Nothing!”

Mycroft sighed. “I will be in touch.”

*****

Not five minutes later, the phone rang again, and Sherlock, shrugging on a suit jacket, answered it.

“Mycroft?”

“There is very little time to explain this, so I will be brief. Whoever has done this has done their job all too well, I fear. Dr. Watson seems to have been taken from just outside Baker Street Station. He was seen on camera exiting the train earlier this evening, but he seems to have disappeared directly afterward, and there are no other indications that anything out of the ordinary had taken place in the area, either before or after his disappearance. I have taken the liberty of tracing the call that was placed to your phone earlier, but that too, I’m afraid, has turned up little.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and paced. “So we know nothing, save that John’s abductors are somehow connected to Moriarty.”

“Are you certain of that?” asked Mycroft.

“As certain as I can be of anything.”

“We will be continuing our investigation,” Mycroft said then. “Have hope, little brother. If they had wanted your doctor dead, they would have already killed him.”

“That is little comfort,” replied Sherlock, and hung up.

*****

John wasn’t sure how long he’d already been wherever he was, but it had clearly been a while. He spent some time trying to free himself. The knotted fabric that gagged him was tied tightly at the back of his head, and he was unable to chew through it. The cord that had been used to tie him was tough and resisted his attempts to stretch it. The knots, so far as he could tell, had been placed so as to be impossible for him to reach them. He tried to find out what he had in the way of resources, but his attempts came up empty-handed. Divested of clothing, he was left with practically nothing to help him. He squirmed on the hard floor in hopes of finding anything, any debris, a stray nail, anything, but the floor had obviously been swept recently, and eventually he stopped, still fatigued from the drugs and tiring quickly from his exertions.

He slept for a while, then woke again with a raging thirst and needing the loo. He thrashed about on the floor, wondering whether that might get someone’s notice, and was rewarded for his effort by the sound of a door opening and footsteps approaching. A different male voice growled, “I’m to take you to the loo. I’ve got a gun, mind, so no tricks. One false move and I’ll shoot your balls off. Understand?” John nodded tensely.

His ankles were freed then, but not his hands. His guard then pulled him to his feet and marched him to a different part of the room, then opened a door. Whatever room this was, it didn’t seem to be a bathroom per se, but from what he could feel with his bare feet, it seemed to have a drain, at least. 

It was unnerving, to say the least, being so vulnerable at the hands of this unknown captor, and at first John could not relax enough to urinate despite his need; but eventually he managed it, somehow without even getting much on himself. His guard then took him back to the first room, forced him to sit down, and retied his ankles.

“I am going to remove your gag for a bit,” said the man then. “Stay quiet, or I’ll throttle you with it.”

He then untied the gag and offered him a cup of warm water, holding it so that John could drink. After John finished the water, he licked his dry lips, then opened his mouth to speak, only to have the gag forcibly shoved into his mouth and retied. His guard then double-checked John’s bonds, securing his wrists to his ankles for good measure, then left.

The position was uncomfortable, to say the least -- already he could feel the cords chafing his flesh. John tried to relax into it and focused on breathing and on trying not to panic. He hoped that whatever happened next, for better or for worse, would come soon.

*****

Whatever would come next, was a long time in coming. Hours passed with agonizing slowness. His captors came in several times more to escort John to the loo and give him water, but no food. Nearly sick with fear, he couldn’t even think about eating anyway, even though several mealtimes had likely come and gone. His stomach roiled as he began to seriously consider his situation. 

What are they going to do with me? he wondered. Sick images of torture and rape swam through his mind. He’d seen some frightful things in Afghanistan and heard tales of worse; his heart beat wildly in his chest as he tried to steel himself for whatever horrors might be in store. He wished he’d been left some clothing, even just pants. 

A couple of times, he gave way to hysteria, screaming into his gag, thrashing about, flailing wildly given the very limited range of motion he had. The only thing this accomplished was to leave him gasping, hoarse, exhausted, sore, and near despair. He knew that the longer he remained bound and unfed, the weaker he was likely to become, making escape that much less likely.

He was recovering from one of these fits when he heard the door open and shut. Someone was making their way quietly toward him, and he fell still, listening.

“John Watson,” breathed a gravelly voice. There was a rustle, and then the man’s hand was at John’s throat. John did not move a muscle. “Sherlock’s little fuck toy. That’s right, innit? I read your blog, you know,” and a thumb, calloused and rough, was pressing up under the line of his jaw. “Such amazing adventures, the two of you, eh? Sherlock, the Great Detective, and you, ‘is trusty sidekick. I bet you do anything for ‘im, yeah? I bet ‘e taught you to suck cock, didn’t ‘e?”

John was as unmoving as a stone, even as terror gripped him.

“I think you should give me a little demonstration.”

There was the sound of a belt buckle, and then a zipper.

 _Let him try it_ , he suddenly thought. _Just let him try. I’ll bite it off and laugh when he kills me._

“Come on, then. I’m gonna take off your gag, now. This’ll just be between you and me, yeah? You suck me, and maybe I won't give you a few extra scars to match that one on your shoulder, huh?”

The man was crouching low over John, so close that he could hear the man’s fast, excited breath, and he could feel the fingers working at the knot of his gag. His gorge rose as he tried to anticipate what was coming next, and he bunched his hands into fists, even as they remained firmly tied at his back.

The gag came off, and John wet his lips and worked his jaw.

“That’s right, you’re going to get ready for me,” said the man then. John heard the sound of flesh on flesh, and realized his guard was stroking himself, bringing himself to readiness. Every muscle in John’s body tensed in preparation for what he was about to do next.

The door banged open. “Collins!” barked a different voice.

The sounds of frantic rubbing stopped, and there was the rustle of clothing. “What do you want?” snarled Collins.

“Seb wants to know where you are,” said the newcomer. “What should I tell him, huh? You were supposed to be minding the loading dock.”

“Ain’t nothing ‘appening at the bloody loading dock,” said Collins. “I reckon I’m having a quick break, is all. Just a little chat with Watson, ‘ere. Then I’ll go back. Won’t be a few minutes.”

“‘Little chat’, my arse,” the other man shot back. “With your trousers half down? Seb said we weren’t to touch the prisoner without his say-so.”

“You little rat!” roared Collins. “What’s it to you, anyway? Watson ‘ere ‘as probably sucked plenty of cock anyway, what’s one more?”

“Collins,” came a raised voice, and John recognized the first man who had spoken to him, hours before. “Evans, go back to your post. Collins,” and John heard the man lower his voice threateningly, “The next time I find you here without my leave, I’ll carve you into so many pieces they’ll think I fed you into a wood chipper. Now, get out.” 

Collins and Evans left quickly.

John exhaled, and the other man spoke. “This was a reprieve, Doctor Watson. If you are very, very lucky, maybe we’ll only kill you. Me, though…” and the man chuckled. John felt a chill at the back of his neck. “I’m personally looking forward to bending you over a table and fucking you six ways to Sunday before I send your body back to Sherlock. Well, as much of it as is left, that is.”

He shoved the gag back into John’s gasping mouth, tied it tightly into place, and left, slamming the door behind him.

*****

Time crawled by. His main captor had not returned, and John was not sure what that meant. He was at least grateful no one else had come in to try to assault him. 

He wondered whether Sherlock had noticed that he was gone, or if the criminals who had him had made contact with the detective. He alternated between hope that Sherlock was looking for him, and terror that Sherlock would come for him and be murdered for his trouble.

Eventually John lost track of time and, weary from his ordeal, began falling into an uneasy doze, but was jolted back to alertness by the sound of a door opening, then footsteps and multiple male voices. “Time to get the good doctor here ready!” he heard one man say. “Wouldn’t do to start the party without him!”

He felt a large hand caressing his bare buttocks and heard laughter, then his ankles were untied, and he was pulled roughly to his feet. He had no idea what to expect next. _I won’t let them rape me_ , he thought then, with an unexpected flare of anger. _I’ll make them kill me first._

They dragged him some distance, then sat him on a chair and tied his ankles to the chair legs, then retied his wrists behind the chair, holding him down when he tried to fight. They added more cords around his torso and hips for good measure, until at last he was secured to their satisfaction. Their attention then turned, seemingly, to other tasks.

There were a number of other voices, but John could not tell how many. He was unlikely to be able to fight them all off, then, even if he could manage to free himself, and chances were that more than one of them would be armed. He forced down a rising panic and tried to keep a clear head.

Then a single voice cut through the din.

“Gentlemen,” said John’s captor, “well met. My name is Sebastian Moran, and the fellow in that chair,” there came a bark of laughter, “is none other than John Watson, associate of one Sherlock Holmes. Dr. Watson here, as you have heard, is our guest of honor this evening. Let’s give him a round of applause just to say thanks for providing tonight’s entertainment!”

There was some scattered clapping, interspersed with jeers.

“So, are we ready to begin?”

“One moment,” interrupted someone. “Dr. Watson may be lacking some of the background here. It would be terribly rude of us not to introduce ourselves, wouldn’t it?”

The man went on. “My name is Albert Gruner. You may have heard of me.”

Indeed John had. Acquitted of the murders of two of his previous wives, Sherlock had prevented Gruner’s marriage to a young heiress the previous year by simply digging up the man’s most recent chat logs, most specifically those featuring sexually charged conversations with what were likely to be teenaged girls, which Sherlock then presented for her perusal. His ambition thwarted, Gruner had left London, but promised to get even with Sherlock at the first possible opportunity.

“By now, by rights I should have been a happily married man. But thanks to your Sherlock Holmes, not only did she dump me, but I was fired from my work just for using the internet, like any other normal man would do! Well, I figure Holmes owes me for that, but he’s not here, is he? So that’s where you come in.”

“I’ll go next,” said someone else. “Robert Clay. I don’t know if you remember my brother, John Clay.”

John did remember the man. He and Sherlock uncovered his plan to rob a bank by tunneling into it from an adjacent shop. Their work, and later, their testimony, had helped put Clay behind bars.

“Thanks to you, my brother is sitting in a prison cell, leaving his wife and three kids to do the best they can without him. You could have gone easy on him, maybe warned him off, but no, after the great Sherlock Holmes spoke at his trial, the judge threw the book at him.”

The man did get a severe sentence -- life in prison if John remembered correctly -- but he had little sympathy. No one had forced him into a life of crime; he had walked into it willingly and with his eyes open, and was utterly remorseless when caught. It was too bad for the kids, but then, it always was.

“Well, my brother will be happy when he finds out I had this one chance to make some payback. How about it, Dr. Watson?”

The next three men to introduce themselves told a similar story. One was a drugs and arms smuggler who had lost a significant amount of business on Moriarty’s death. Another was a con artist who had once made a decent living preying off the elderly, before Sherlock alerted Scotland Yard to his activities. The last was a prolific jewel thief who might have continued indefinitely had Sherlock not tracked him through a gem that had been hidden in a goose and sold, likely inadvertently, to none other than their landlady, Mrs. Hudson. John was surrounded by his and Sherlock’s enemies, all of whom had a very personal ax to grind and were gleeful at the opportunity to take out their hatred on John. Naked, tied, and helpless, John had never felt so trapped or vulnerable.

Moran was the last to speak. “I was, as few know, James Moriarty’s chief lieutenant. He was perhaps the most brilliant man alive, and it was an honor to work for him, and more so to count him as a personal friend. A little over two years ago, though, he died facing off against Sherlock Holmes.”

There was a low muttering at this.

“My one consolation at the time was that at least Holmes had finally gotten his long-deserved comeuppance,” continued Moran. “You can imagine how I felt when I discovered that he had survived, after all. Somehow, he survived when my friend died. I owe it to Jim to correct this...situation.”

Somehow this frightened John more than anything else that had happened so far. It wouldn’t be enough, he thought, for Moran to take revenge on John alone. No, Moran would not be contented until Sherlock was dead for once and for all.

 _Please stay away, Sherlock_ , John thought. _They can do as they like with me, but you... I can’t lose you again._

*****

It had been the better part of a day, and Sherlock had had no further word from John’s captors, nor had Mycroft uncovered any new information.

Sherlock paced, stared at the photo of John, talked to the skull, and paced some more. He made tea, then neglected to drink it, making more when the first cup grew cold, only to ignore that cup as well. When the nicotine patches stopped cutting it, he dug a pile of cigarettes from a Persian slipper under the sofa and smoked one cigarette, then another, then another. He knew how much John hated it when he smoked, but John wasn’t here to complain.

He tried not to think too much about that as the cigarette in his hand burned down. He lit another cigarette off of that one and started on it just as his text alert went off.

He picked up the phone and read the message carefully.

_Fancy a flutter on an army doctor? Come and join us, we have lots of power. 1900 hours. Don’t be late._

Finally. Sherlock’s mind spun into overdrive.

_  
Refers to time in 24-hour format, so likely military background, though not currently serving. Lots of power...lots…_

_Lot, n. 1. a large number or amount; a great deal. 2. the whole number or quantity that is involved or implied, e.g. ‘I’ll take the whole lot.’ 3. a particular group, collection, or set of people or things. 3.1. a group or person of a particular kind. 4. an article or set of articles for sale at an auction._

_for sale at an auction…_

_Power. Political power, military power, electricity? Power cord. Power station._

_Lots Road Power Station.  
_

He had one hour. He stubbed out his current cigarette, threw on his suit jacket, and left.

*****

“So here’s my proposal,” said Moran. “Seven-card stud. Whoever has the most at the end of the night gets the pot and the doctor here. What you do with either after that is, of course, up to you. Who’s in?”

*****

The men played round after round, leaving John to sit in a sort of horrible state of anticipation. Whoever won him probably was not going to just give his clothes back and send him back to 221B. There wasn’t much talk at the table, for which John was pathetically grateful, but it also left him with very little data on which to base his private speculations. Unfortunately, that made it all too easy for him to dwell on a seemingly endless set of loathsome possibilities.

At length there were just two players left: Gruner and Moran. “I don’t have the deep pockets of some of the rest of you lot,” groused Clay as he conceded at last. “But I will say, whichever one of you gets Sherlock’s boyfriend, I hope you make it count.”

“The poof is probably used to taking it up the arse from Sherlock on the daily,” said Gruner. “I could, I suppose, but he’d probably enjoy it. Nah, if I win, I’ll just be sending him back to his boyfriend in as many pieces as I can.”

“What you lack is imagination,” said Moran. “I’d be surprised if he managed to enjoy the things I have on my list. I might even let my boys have a go first before I’m finished with him.”

“Well, suit yourselves, I’m sure,” returned Gruner, “but I’m no fairy, and I’m not interested in sloppy seconds from the likes of Sherlock Holmes. I just want to see the look on his face when he sees what I’ve done to his partner, here. Pity I probably won’t get to, but it’s nice to dream.”

As the game wound down, Gruner amassed more and more of the pot, and John was almost glad to think that he might only be brutally murdered and not also raped into the bargain. Pain he could deal with, if he knew it would end, and Gruner didn’t seem the type to drag things out from what little he could tell. As for Sherlock, well, he had Mrs. Hudson, he had Mycroft and Lestrade and Molly Hooper, and he had lived without John before. So long as Sherlock was safe, that was what counted the most.

He remembered Mary, as she had bled out in hospital, their tiny daughter stillborn. He had grieved for them, and for a time his fondest wish was to follow them in death. His sister Harry had too many of her own demons to be a support for him, so in those black days it was Sherlock, as ever, who had given him something to live for.

These cruel men obviously thought, as many others had, that John and Sherlock had been lovers. In truth, in the time before Sherlock’s “death”, and even afterwards, he had almost wished they’d been together in that way. He had loved Mary, but it had always been difficult for him to keep the depth of his feelings for Sherlock locked away. But as much as he loved Sherlock, he did not believe the detective had it in him to care for him, or for anyone for that matter, in that way. The man was like a force of nature, inhumanly beautiful and compelling in his intensity; but though it was possible to love Nature, such a human thing as love was impossible for her in return, and so it seemed with Sherlock. 

At least if John had to die, he would find some comfort in the hope that Sherlock’s enemies might content themselves with John’s suffering and death, counting their wrongs avenged, and leave the detective alone.

At last, the men were down to what seemed to be the final hand. “Well, I’m down but not out,” said Moran. “Let’s do this. I’ll go all in.”

“I’m not backing down that easy,” said Gruner. “I can match you and have more left over.”

“How about this, then?” said Moran. “Money isn’t everything. Give me the doctor, and I’ll let you have the money.”

“That wasn’t the agreement. Whoever got the pot, got Dr. Watson, is what you said. Not one or the other.”

“Then I’ll buy him off of you,” Moran replied.

“What’s this about, then?” demanded the smuggler, who had kept mostly to himself up until this point. “You had your chance, you didn’t have to set any of this up at all if you wanted Sherlock’s pet to yourself. Gruner here looks like he’s going to win, so now you want to change the deal?”

“Oh, there never was going to be a deal,” came a new and resonant voice at the doorway.

John jerked in his bonds at the sound of his friend’s voice. _Sherlock, no!_

At the same time, someone moved up behind John and held what was unmistakably a blade to his cheek.

“Sherlock Holmes,” said Moran. “So you finally decided to show up. Bit late, you know, game’s almost over. But by all means, sit down, join us.”

“What do you mean, there wasn’t going to be a deal?” asked Clay.

John could almost see the sneer on Sherlock’s face. “Look at you lot. How do you manage to dress yourselves independently? I believe your collective IQ is a lower number than my shoe size.”

“Oi!” someone exclaimed.

Sherlock continued. “Did you seriously believe that Seb here invited you over out of generosity? To give you a chance at exercising your own personal vendettas? To spend an evening as chums, even?

“Seb here was James Moriarty’s right-hand man, as he is so fond of reminding everyone. No, not just that, he was Jim’s friend, as though Jim actually had friends. At any rate, he of all people has a vested interest in bringing Jim’s plans to fruition, even if dear Jim himself is no longer here to witness this achievement.

“Do you seriously think that Jim’s chief desire was merely to exact retribution on John Watson? That this would be his crowning achievement, to go into the annals of criminal history?”

There was an undercurrent of whispering at this.

“No, what this is, is a pivotal move with multiple end goals in mind.

“One: To have vengeance on John Watson and on me, personally. Jim once said he would burn the heart out of me. We all recognize that this is a primary objective, but it is not the only one.

Two: To make an example of those who have failed him. Salvatore -- you were a smuggler. What percentage of your product were you diverting to side channels? How often did you double-charge Moriarty for product you never delivered?”

“I-- I never--!” started the smuggler.

“Three,” continued Sherlock. “To remove, let us say, potential challengers. Owens, you made a tidy sum off jewel heists, among other pursuits. Yet you weren’t working alone, were you? How many accomplices did you have? You stepped on some long toes, didn’t you, when you snatched some of Moriarty’s intended take, right out from under his nose.”

“You’re making that up, you can’t prove that was me--!”

“Yet you were not yet even aware that you had come to his attention,” went on Sherlock inexorably.

“As for the rest of you,” he said, “you were loose ends. John Clay went to prison, but despite having family on the outside, he didn’t have the sense to shut up about Moriarty’s involvement in the planned bank heist. Gruner, you may have done better than the others, had you more wit than to try to seduce the young daughter of a man high up in Jim’s organization.

“Each and every one of you were lured here. Not just lured here, kept here -- for hours -- while Seb here has had his men out there, removing your associates, threatening your families, destroying your documentation, and taking anything of yours they find of value.”

There was shouting now, but whoever was holding the blade to John’s cheek remained firmly in place.

Then Moran thundered, “Enough!” and the room fell silent.

“Well, Holmes,” he said then. “You have done your homework. Better than the rest of you lot. Yes, Jim had plans for all of you, not just for Holmes. He did not survive to see this day, but luckily, he had me.

“Now, everyone, up against that wall there.”

John wished he could see what was going on. Probably Moran’s henchmen had the others at gunpoint. He wondered whether any of them were going to survive the day. 

He could hear the others being herded into position.

“Not you, Holmes,” Moran said then. “I have something different in mind for you. Evans, if you would…”

The room exploded in yells and muted gunfire, but not for long. One last gurgle ended with one final shot, then there was silence. 

_They’re using silencers_ , John realized. Well-equipped, then.

Sherlock spoke then, and John shivered with relief to hear his voice. “I guess you’ve gotten this lot out of the way. What now? Going to shoot us, too?”

“That would be far too easy,” replied Moran. “No, you’re going to watch me and my crew fuck your little boyfriend, here.”

 _Oh, God, no_ , thought John.

“...Then when we’re done with him, you’re going to watch us kill him. And then...then I’ll kill you, Holmes. And I won’t shoot you, no, that’s much too easy. Lucky for you, I have some time to kill, huh?

“Tie up Holmes,” Moran ordered. John could hear scuffling, then a heavy sound, as a punch landing on flesh, and a deep grunt. “Then when you’ve done that, let’s get Dr. Watson here out of that chair. Can’t really fuck him in that position, right?”

John sat perfectly still as the man behind him cut the cords around his torso and hips. Then the minute his ankles were freed, he reacted.

He threw his weight backwards, kicking his guard squarely in the face. He shouted into his gag as he fell backwards, hurting his bound arms, but he had already succeeded in splintering the chair. John staggered up and yelled again as he wrenched one arm out of the ropes that had held him.

He was still blindfolded and gagged, and did not see the man whom he’d kicked rise up in front of him. As John raised a shaking hand to rip the tape off his eyes, his guard tackled him to the floor, wrapping large hands around John’s neck. Flailing about, John found something on the ground with his left hand, dragged it up and jabbed his adversary with it as hard as he could; he must have hit home, because after the barest instant of initial resistance, something seemed to give. The man shrieked and rolled away, and John tore the tape off his face to find that he’d somehow managed with a jagged piece of his broken chair to stake his guard clumsily in the eye, leaving the man screaming and rolling on the floor. 

In the meantime, Sherlock had managed somehow to take out two men who were lying unconscious on the ground, one with his elbow bent at an impossible angle, and was busy fighting another man, and John stumbled over to try to help, slipping on someone’s blood as he went. He was brought up short by the muzzle of a gun, pressed against his face.

“Stop!” bellowed the man, and John recognized the voice of Sebastian Moran. He was tall, as tall as Sherlock, with light brown hair and a muscular build. Sherlock froze, and his opponent drew a gun as well, pointing it at Sherlock.

“Well now,” said Moran. “The little doctor puts up a good fight, after all.” He struck John then over the head with the weapon, and Sherlock cried, “John!”; John saw stars burst behind his eyes and found himself on the floor, with Moran’s boot on his neck. He struggled, but Moran pressed down, making breathing difficult -- even more difficult, considering that John was still gagged.

“It doesn’t matter. Evans, take care of Holmes, there, while I attend to Dr. Watson. Then check the others -- I think they’ll need some medical attention. Not from you,” he continued, rolling his boot on John’s neck. John gasped around his gag, both hands unsuccessfully trying to force Moran’s foot away.

“On your knees,” growled Evans, and Sherlock, hands in the air, complied. Suddenly, the expression on Sherlock’s face changed; his eyes bulged, and his mouth dropped open, as his gaze focused on something behind Moran. Both Evans and Moran turned to look.

With one swift motion, Sherlock slammed the heel of his hand into the side of Evans’ patella, popping it out of place. Evans went down with a cry as John shoved hard at Moran’s ankle, rolling away with all his remaining strength. Moran fell on his side, and Sherlock leapt on Moran, grabbing for the gun Moran still held. With a savage twist, Sherlock broke Moran’s wrist and wrested the gun away. John yanked the gag from his mouth, gasping, just as Sherlock, eyes wild, pulled the trigger, shooting Moran once, twice, three times. Moran jerked and fell back, dead.

Sherlock moved to John’s side where he knelt shakily on the floor. “Can you walk?” the detective asked.

“Yes,” John croaked.

Sherlock removed his suit jacket and put it about John’s shoulders, then bent to take some of John’s weight as they hobbled awkwardly through the nearest exit. The moment they’d cleared the door, Sherlock was dialing emergency services.

They sank to the ground just beyond a chain-linked fence and waited for the police to arrive. John shook uncontrollably, hunched in Sherlock’s jacket, and leaned into Sherlock’s side. Sherlock put one arm about his shoulders. His other hand still gripped Moran’s gun.

*****

Mycroft Holmes, umbrella in hand, pulled aside the privacy curtain in A&E where John Watson sat on a gurney, clothed in hospital scrubs, waiting to be discharged. John stared wordlessly at the elder Holmes, and Mycroft stared back. Eventually Mycroft spoke. “I must congratulate you, Dr. Watson,” he said. “Another amazing escape. How many does this make now? Ten? Twelve?”

John chuckled humorlessly. “After living with Sherlock all this time, I am afraid I’ve quite lost count.”

Mycroft inclined his head. “Indeed. At any rate, I am pleased to see that you are safe -- or, as you might say, as safe as you ever are. Do try to take a couple of weeks off before your next abduction, won’t you?”

He sauntered away just as Sherlock stalked over.

John cleared his throat. “An inspector took my statement. I guess you have given yours, as well?”

Sherlock harrumphed. “If they actually made use of all the material they insist on having, they would have little need of my services. As it is, they seem to be finished with the questioning for the time being. I would not be surprised to find they have more questions on the morrow.”

He came and sat on the edge of the gurney next to John.

“They getting your discharge papers, then?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, think so,” John replied.

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“John,” Sherlock began.

“Sherlock, I-- I’m sorry. I just, I’m not really up to talking about this, ok? I’m very tired, and I just want to go home and go to bed.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it, nodded, got up and walked away, closing the privacy curtain as he went.

John sighed. Considering everything he’d been through in the past thirty hours, he came off far better than he’d had any right to expect; but he still felt like he’d been put through a wringer, and he wanted nothing more than to go home and rest.

When a middle-aged nurse appeared with his discharge papers, he exhaled with relief, even managing a smile as he took them. He stood and then realized he had no shoes. “Ah well, screw it,” he muttered, and shuffled out of the ward in his borrowed, non-slip hospital socks.

Sherlock stood up from a chair in the waiting room at his approach. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll get us a cab. Your things are still God knows where at that power plant, and the whole place is still taped off.”

*****

His dreams that night were terrifying and confusing, full of bombs, dust, and leering faces. He was in a battlefield, but this time he was naked and unarmed. Fully aware of his acute vulnerability, he tried to run for cover as gunshots sounded around him, but he could barely move. He looked down to find that his ankles were tied together, and suddenly he was falling face-first into the dirt.

John jerked awake, breathing hard, feeling the dampness of sweat on his neck and back. He ran his hands down his body, finding to his relief that he was still wearing the same threadbare vest and shorts that he’d worn to bed, and he sat still for a few minutes, reacquainting himself with reality, bringing his breathing and heart rate down.

Voices drifted up the stairs from the living room, and he finally thought to look at the clock. It was after ten in the morning; he’d really slept. He got up, threw on a dressing gown, and headed downstairs.

Mycroft and Sherlock sat in the living room in opposing armchairs, and both looked up as John entered. “Good morning, Dr. Watson,” said Mycroft. John merely nodded and walked directly to the loo.

*****

Sherlock continued. “With Moran, I think, went the end of Moriarty’s network once and for all. I had thought him eliminated sometime back, at a small town in Switzerland. I should have made certain.”

“Are we sure he was the last, then?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Moriarty’s network was of an unprecedented scope. I don’t know that we can ever be completely sure. Moran was the last of the major players, though, of that we can be sure.”

Mycroft sipped his tea. “We will, of course, be following up with the survivors. One or two may be willing to speak with us, perhaps, in exchange for a reduced sentence. It would also be useful to have whatever documentation Moran’s men were trying to gather from their victims last night. We are speaking with the families of the deceased now.”

“Hmm. It was not, I believe, in Moran’s original plan to kill those men. If he had wanted that, he could have done so right away. My feeling is that he had hoped to gather more information from them throughout the course of the evening first.”

“The whole thing was clumsily done, if you ask me,” said Mycroft. “Moran must have been growing complacent.”

“Remember, though, he no longer had Moriarty calling the shots,” commented Sherlock. “No doubt we would have been at a grave disadvantage had he been there."

“No doubt.” Mycroft stood, just as John emerged from the loo. “I will see myself out. Dr. Watson,” and he inclined his head, looped the handle of his umbrella over his arm, and departed.

John made his way to his armchair, picked up Mycroft’s discarded teacup, and took it to the kitchen. “Any more where this came from?” he called back to the living room.

“Mm,” Sherlock said. “Afraid not.”

“Of course not,” John muttered, and restarted the kettle.

He made himself a mug and a couple of pieces of toast and took it all over to the living room. Sherlock had moved to the sofa and was draped over it in his usual thinking pose. John sighed inwardly. At least Sherlock would be out of his hair for a little while, if his disposition was any indication. He rubbed at one chafed wrist, took a bite of toast, and picked up the _Telegraph_.

“OVERNIGHT HORROR AT ABANDONED POWER PLANT,” read one headline. Suddenly the toast was dry in John’s mouth, and he folded the paper and laid it back down on the side table. He touched his chafed wrist again and tried not to think about being tied, naked, feeling a stranger’s unwanted hand sliding across his skin…

“John,” came Sherlock’s voice suddenly, and John jerked back to reality to find Sherlock kneeling next to him, with an expression as concerned as the one he’d worn that terrible night back at the pool when he’d found John in Semtex, Moriarty’s words on his lips.

John tried to still the trembling in his hand as he reached for his mug of tea. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “It’s...fine.” He took a large sip and felt the warmth seep into him, and he tried to relax.

Sherlock regarded him carefully, and John felt himself raked over by that gaze. Yet the feeling was not the horrible, skin-crawling awareness of vulnerability that he’d endured at the hands of Moran and the others. It was closer to the feeling of being cared for, watched over.

“Thank you,” John heard himself say then. “For...coming to get me.”

Sherlock stared at him, but merely said, “Of course, John.” 

John found himself trying to explain. “They, they were...I thought they might kill you. I didn’t want, I hoped you would find me but I didn’t, I didn’t want…” It was becoming hard to breathe.

Sherlock continued to look into John’s face, then suddenly he reached forward, and took John’s hand. John squeezed it hard, then let go, launched himself into Sherlock, and wrapped his arms around him.

Sherlock was frozen, stiffly allowing himself to be hugged, but as the seconds ticked by, he began to lean forward. His arms came up to encircle John’s smaller frame, and he found himself holding on, resting his chin on the top of John’s head while John shook.

He had only hugged John on a couple of occasions, once, quite memorably, at John’s wedding. Somehow the realness of it always caught him unawares: the heat of John’s body, the surprising strength with which he held on, the smell of his hair. He found himself loath to let go.

They risked their lives all the time, it was true. But seeing John like that, at the mercy of their enemies, helpless and exposed...it had filled him with a rage and a fear that nearly unhinged him. He’d sacrificed so much to ensure John’s protection, and it wasn’t enough -- he had still almost lost him, and it was unacceptable.

John’s shaking slowly eased, and he let go, pushing back from Sherlock to sit in his armchair, reaching for his cooling mug in an effort to hide his embarrassment. But Sherlock reached forward as well, took the mug from his hand, and set it back down.

“Sherlock…?” John started, and only just then took in the expression on his friend’s face. It was suddenly wild, his face pale, lips drawn down at the corners. 

“I could never let them have you,” Sherlock said, with an intensity that was almost tangible. “I could not have lived with myself if they had hurt you. I was glad to hurt them, to kill them. I would do it again. I would, in fact, welcome the chance to resurrect them and hurt them and kill them over and over again, if that were possible, for having done this.”

“Sherlock…” John started, but the words were a torrent, and there was no stopping them now.

“If they had hurt you, I swear, I would have made them suffer, John. There would have been no place on earth I would not have hunted them. And if they’d killed you...if they’d killed you…”

“Sherlock,” John whispered.

The look of anguish in Sherlock’s eyes pierced John to the core, and he didn’t know what to do. Nearly besides himself with the need to drive that look from Sherlock’s face, and without once thinking about it, he suddenly lunged forward and kissed him.

Sherlock stilled instantly, and John stopped and reeled back into his armchair, saying, “Sherlock, I-- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-- I don’t know what I was thinking, just delete that, ok? Just delete it--”

Then he was being crowded backward into his chair, and Sherlock’s lips were pressed to his, kissing him with everything he was worth, and John opened his mouth and kissed back, pouring out everything, everything he’d felt for so long but had never been able to say.

John had imagined this moment a million times, but he had never thought it would really happen, and awareness slammed into him -- he was actually, finally kissing Sherlock, and oh God, Sherlock was kissing him back. Sherlock’s large hands were cupped to either side of John’s face as though he held something indescribably precious, and John whimpered into his mouth. They kissed as though the world were ending, as though everything in the universe was falling away and nothing would be left except for the two of them, here, pressed into John’s armchair as the stars went dark and cold around them.

Sherlock’s lips were warm and soft, and John became conscious of the fact that his own hands were roaming up Sherlock’s sides, beneath his silk dressing gown. He could feel every rib, every wiry muscle through his friend’s thin shirt, and he realized that Sherlock’s hands were moving as well, carding through John’s hair, stroking the back of his neck, sliding across his jaw line, rasping over the stubble there. John broke free then, and they pressed their foreheads together, breathing hard. 

A bubble of giddiness rose up in John’s chest, and suddenly he was smiling hugely, then laughing. Sherlock looked puzzled at first, but then he too smiled, one of his rare, true smiles that only John ever saw. There was a flush on his cheeks that John found very becoming, and he stroked his thumb across one prominent cheekbone.

Sherlock reached up, took John’s hand, and kissed his fingers, then slipped two of them into his mouth.

A jolt of lust shot through John’s belly and straight to his cock, and he found that he was suddenly breathless for an entirely different, and very welcome, reason. He looked into Sherlock’s face and saw the arousal he felt reflected there. Sherlock stared at him hungrily, as though he wanted to devour him, and John felt dizzy with the realization that if Sherlock asked, John would probably let him.

Sherlock pulled John’s fingers from his mouth and kissed his palm, the inside of his wrist, then made his way back toward John and inhaled deeply at the base of his neck. John shuddered, and Sherlock pressed his advantage, pushing John back into the armchair, and snaking one large hand down, down John’s chest, down his belly, to palm his stiffened cock. Helpless with need, John bucked into Sherlock’s touch, whispering brokenly, “Sherlock.”

He needed more, needed to feel skin against skin, needed heat and friction, needed to touch, to be touched, to be utterly engulfed. Sherlock seemed to understand, and standing, pulled John to his feet.

They stumbled the short distance to Sherlock’s room, kissing, pulling at each other’s clothing, hands and lips doing their best to take even as they staggered through the door, falling half-dressed onto Sherlock’s bed.

“Sherlock,” gasped John, as Sherlock licked across one collarbone, reaching under John’s waistband, grazing the soft hair there. “Wait,” panted John, pushing, not sure he could stop, but he had to ask, had to know. He wanted it all, but he couldn’t, not until he was sure.

 _God, please, don’t let this be a mistake,_ he thought.

Sherlock stopped with an effort and sat back on his heels, head bowed, breathing hard. His face was flushed, his trousers undone, his shirt open and pushed back off his shoulders. John thought he had never looked so beautiful.

“Sherlock,” John said then. “Please...I know we have been through an, an ordeal, these last two days. I know I have. I just, I just need to know. Are you sure? Because I can’t just sleep with you, Sherlock. You need to know. You are everything, do you understand? And I can’t, I can’t…” He shook his head, not knowing how to say what he meant.

Eyes the color of a crystal lagoon stared back at him. “If I am everything to you, then, John,” said Sherlock quietly, “to me...how can I say what you are to me? To me you are mathematics, you are music, you are the one puzzle piece that makes the rest of the picture make sense. There is nothing for me in this world without you. Nothing.”

Wondering, John gazed up at Sherlock and saw the truth in the depth of the feeling there. How could he ever have thought Sherlock was incapable of love? he wondered. 

Sherlock bent to kiss him then, so tenderly that it twisted something deep in John’s chest. He reached up to return the kiss, let his hands stroke down Sherlock’s shoulders, his arms, warm and corded with an unexpectedly wiry strength, down to push at Sherlock’s trousers and pants.

He hadn’t done this often, had been with only two other men ever, in fact, but he let instinct take over, let himself be guided by Sherlock’s reactions.

And was Sherlock ever receptive. He shivered at John’s touch, making a strangled noise as John’s small hands moved over the small of his back, to his arse, and he gasped, “Clothes, John, take them off,” in a voice that was lower than John had ever heard it.

He moved to obey with alacrity, stripping off what remained of his clothing, as Sherlock did the same, dropping everything carelessly onto the floor.

Sherlock’s gaze took in every inch of John’s exposed body, and suddenly John remembered being bound, naked and helpless in front of a room full of people who wanted to hurt him. He flinched then, and Sherlock started, backing away. “John,” he began.

“It’s...fine,” John managed, closing his eyes for a moment, willing himself to relax. “I just...give me a moment.” 

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, and then he said, “John. They didn’t...can you tell me?”

John shook his head. “No. They didn’t. There were some who wanted to,” and he swallowed hard, “but they didn’t, after all.”

Another beat, then Sherlock spoke again. “I am sorry, John. If you’d rather not...if you want to wait, or maybe if you don’t want to...I, I understand.”

“No, no,” John replied to him, more forcefully than he meant. “I’ve already waited too long. I can’t let them have this, now that we are finally here, I am not about to let them win.” He reached for Sherlock then, for one pale shoulder. God, Sherlock was magnificent, like an alabaster statue, but so warm, so real, so full of life. I love him, John thought, with more than a little wonder. He leaned forward to kiss him again.

Carefully, so carefully, Sherlock pushed him backward onto the bed, kissing him all the while. His body was so solid and warm on John’s, and they instinctively slid against each other, rocking into each other, pushing their hips together. John moaned as he felt Sherlock’s hard length slide alongside his own, and Sherlock stopped kissing him long enough to bring John’s hand up to his own mouth. He licked John’s palm then, sucking each finger into his hot, wet mouth, and John shivered with the effort not to come. Sherlock finished laving John’s hand with his tongue and placed John’s hand over their cocks, putting his own large hand over John’s.

Now they moved in a delicious rhythm, pushing through their joined hands, slick with saliva and pre-come. John looked up at Sherlock, braced above him on the bed, and marveled at his beauty, the dark curls, now disheveled and sweaty, the pale skin, the plush lips, parted as Sherlock exhaled. “God,” John whispered. He felt like he wanted to burst out of his own skin.

“John,” groaned Sherlock. “Please, I can’t, I can’t…”

“I’ve got you,” said John. “Come for me, Sherlock, come…”

And Sherlock did, shaking to pieces with a low and drawn-out cry. The feeling of Sherlock coming apart on top of him, the look of pained ecstasy on his face pushed John over the edge, and he was falling, crying, “Oh, God, Sherlock!” as he pulsed over their joined hands.

Sherlock rolled off of him, and they collapsed onto their sides, spent. Breathing together, they slid down into sleep.

*****

John woke and was momentarily disoriented, finding himself naked and sticky, in an unfamiliar bed. No, in Sherlock’s bed...and they had…

Sherlock was still asleep, one bare shoulder and one long leg showing from under the sheets. John looked at the clock. It was only two o’clock in the afternoon. He grinned. They could have a late lunch, and then…

He always enjoyed spending a day in bed with a new lover. It was a luxury he had rarely engaged in, and he had a feeling Sherlock would be more creative than most.

God, he couldn’t believe he’d ever thought Sherlock might not be interested in sex. He’d never been so pleased to be wrong.

Without opening his eyes, Sherlock spoke. “I can hear you thinking. It’s annoying.”

John grinned even more widely. “I thought you were asleep. I guess you must not be much for pillow talk.”

Sherlock opened one eye and regarded John. “Pillow talk? I am not one of your useless women, John,” he snorted derisively. “If you wished for sweet nothings, you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

“I see,” said John. “My mistake. I thought I remembered something about my being maths and music, and maybe the planets too, but no, I guess you deleted those, after all.” He smirked. “But if you think I’m deleting anything from the last few hours, then it is you who doesn’t know me.”

Sherlock harrumphed and closed his eye again. “I know you, John Watson, well enough to be astonished that you’ve lasted all of two minutes without running for the tea kettle.”

“Maybe I’d hoped you would make tea, for a change,” John suggested.

Sherlock yawned and stretched like a giant cat. John admired the view. How did the man stay so fit? He barely ate or slept, and if he ever bothered to set foot in a gymnasium, John would eat his socks.

He was in too good a mood to put up a fight over something as trivial as tea, so John pulled on Sherlock’s dressing gown and headed downstairs. Rain pattered against the windowpanes as he started the kettle and got out the mugs. He watched as the kettle heated and was momentarily startled by long arms, wrapping around him from behind. Sherlock, still naked, had padded up behind him and now rested his chin on John’s head. John relaxed and leaned back, waiting for the kettle to boil.

It was going to be a good day.


End file.
